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       *       *       *       *       *

Punch, or the London Charivari

Volume 105, November 4th 1893

_edited by Sir Francis Burnand_

       *       *       *       *       *




SELF-HELP.

_Monday._--Am sick of paying all these doctor's bills. Have just seen
an advertisement of _The Domestic Doctor, a Dictionary of Medicine_,
issued in monthly parts. The very thing for a man like me, somewhat
delicate. Hasten to secure Part I. Shall now be able to doctor myself
and save all fees. Delightful! To celebrate emancipation ask JONES
and ROBINSON to dinner at club. No need for economy now. Jolly good
dinner. That club port is excellent.

_Tuesday._--Feel rather seedy. Pain in head. No appetite. Just the
time to make use of _Domestic Doctor_. Capital book. Hullo! Well, I'll
be hanged! Never thought of that. The beastly thing's alphabetical,
and only gets to "Chilblain." No good to look out "Headache." Ah,
perhaps "Ache." No go. "Appetite?" But appetite isn't a disease,
except in men like BANTING. Absolutely no use whatever. Still, will
not be conquered. Shall get another part in a month. Until then take
great care only to have complaints up to Ch. Can always fall back
on Chilblain. Take it easy, with B. and S. in moderate doses when
required, and begin to feel better.

_Wednesday._--Just cut my finger. Feel somewhat nervous. Remember
vaguely that lock-jaw often follows a wound on the hand. Ha! My
dictionary. "Cuts." Ah, no. "Cuts" come after "Chilblain." They will
be in Part II. Bandage wound, and prepare for the worst. Sit with
mouth wide open as best attitude for approaching lockjaw. Can then at
least be fed. If, however, it really comes, shall be dead before Part
VII. of the Dictionary is out. Anyhow, will not send for a doctor.

_Thursday._--Hooray! Finger and jaw both well. Somehow left boot feels
uncommonly tight. Can't walk at all. That fool PHUST has made this
pair too narrow. Feels as though there were something on my toe.
By Jove, so there is! Where's the Dictionary? Chilblain? Can't be
a chilblain this mild weather. Of course not; it's a corn. Look out
"Corn." Oh, hang it, just too far! But, bright idea, perhaps it's a
bunion. Look out "Bunion." Hullo, what's this? "Bunion, see Corn."
Well, of all the confounded----Positively can't walk till next month.
Lie on sofa under open window to get as much air as possible. Fall
asleep. Heavy shower comes on. Get quite wet.

_Friday._--Sneezing like mad, and coughing. Blow my cough! Blow my
nose! No good looking out "Cold" or "Cough" in Dictionary, unless--of
course "Catarrh." Seize my priceless treasure, and read, "Catarrh,
Latin _catarrhus_, from Greek"--oh, hang the derivation!--"an
affection of the mucous membrane, commonly called a cold. See Cold."
Foiled again! Must do what I can with domestic remedies till Part II.
comes out. Fires, hot grog, hot bath, hot gruel, lots of blankets.
Nearly suffocated.

_Saturday._--Very much worse. Awful cough. Sit close to fire wrapped
in thick dressing-gown. JONES looks in. "Hullo, old man," he says,
"what's wrong? Seedy?" I choke out some answer. "Why don't you send
for the doctor?" In my indignation nearly burst my head with coughing.
At last show him Dictionary, and write on scrap of paper, "Can you
suggest some complaint like mine beginning with A or B, or C up
to Ch?" Impetuous fellow, JONES. Starts off wildly--"Influenza,
Pneumonia, Pleurisy, Diphtheria, Sore Throat, Inflammation of the
Lungs----" Then I manage to stop him, and to gasp, "Up to C." "No
difficulty about that," says he. "Cold. Cough----" I shake my head
feebly. "Well, then, Bronchitis." Of course. The very thing. Look it
out. "Bronchitis, from Greek"--blow the derivation!--"inflammation of
the membrane of the bronchia. This serious disease requires skilled
attention. Keep the patient warm, and send at once for a medical man."
What a miserable swindle, when I hoped to save all doctor's fees! Was
warm before. Simply boiling with indignation now. Pass the book to
JONES in speechless disgust. "Quite right too," he remarks; "just what
I said. Capital book! I'll send the doctor as I go home." And so he
does, in spite of my protests. Doctor comes and lays his head on my
chest. Then he says, cheerfully, "Only a little cough. You'll be all
right to-morrow. What's that you say? Bronchitis? Bosh!"

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: _Horsey Party._ "AW--I WANT YOUR TABLE D'OAT DINNER!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

A LAWYER'S CHORTLE.

(_A long way after "The Throstle."_)

  Vacation is over, vacation is over,
    I know it, I know it, I know it.
  Back to the Strand again, home to the Courts again,
    Come counsel and clients to go it.

  Welcome awaits you, High Court of Justice,
    Thousands will flock to you daily.
  "You, you, you, you." Is it then for you,
    That we forget the Old Bailey?

  Jostling and squeezing and struggling and shoving,
    What else were the Courts ever made for?
  The Courts 'twixt the Temple and grey Lincoln's Inn,
    They're not yet entirely paid for!

  Now till next year, all of us cry,
    We'll say (for a fee) what we're bidden.
  Vacation is over, is over, hurrah!
    And all past sorrow is hidden.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE PICKWICKIAN EXAMINATION PAPER.--Pickwickian students are well to
the front. The first answer to our question in last week's number
was sent from Maidstone. Fitting that it should come from DICKENS'S
favourite county, Kent. Yes. The only mention of champagne in
_Pickwick_ is when _Mr. Tupman_ drank a bottle of it after an
exhilarating quadrille.

       *       *       *       *       *

DAMON OUT OF DATE.

  Here is the lovely summer going by,
  And we know nought about it, you and I,
      Being so far away
  One from the other; yet to outward eye
      We both are summer gay.

  And people talk; although no pulses stir
  However much I laugh and dance with her,
      My temporary fate;
  And you, perhaps as carelessly, prefer
      That one your will to wait,

  Who, the dance over, from his strict embrace
  Gallantly frees you, mops his sun-tanned face,
      And asks in accents low
  Whether you'd like an ice, or what, in case
      You breathe a doubtful "No."

  Oh, the striped awning and the fairy lamp,
  The cool night fragrance, the insidious damp,
      And, more insidious still,
  The sweet effrontery of the beardless scamp
      Who babbles at his will.

  Here, by the sea, which in the darkness sings,
  On the free breeze I give my fancy wings,
      And in a sudden shrine
  Your image throned appears, while the wind swings
      Its sea-incense divine.

  Breathless I worship in the waiting night
  The sparkling eyes, that sometimes seem all light,
      The cheek so purely pale,
  The sacred breast, than whitest dress more white,
      Where whitest thought must fail.

  Thin arms, with dimpled shadows here and there,
  The curl'd luxuriance of your soft, dark hair
      Its own bewitching wreath,
  And perfect mouth that shows, in smiles too rare,
      The radiant little teeth.

  You cannot live on dances and delights,
  Or fêtes by day and dance-music by nights.
      Time foots it fleeter far
  Than all the surging crowd your beauty smites
      Like some coruscant star.

  The ruthless social dragon will not spare
  Your sweet girl nature, withering in the glare,
      Or peeping out by stealth.
  Wealth's prize is beauty, and to make all fair,
      Beauty's desire is wealth.

  I cannot keep a carriage for you, dear;
  No horses on three hundred pounds a year
      My lacking stables grace.
  Yet the swift Hansom to the whistle clear
      Will always speed apace.

  I cannot give you wines of vintage rare,
  There is no room for them beneath the stair
      Which is my cellar's space.
  Yet with Duke HUMPHREY we could often fare
      With more than ducal grace.

  Ah, loves, like books, are fated from the first,
  One gets no cup of water for the thirst
      The whole stream would not slake;
  Another dims with tears the springs that burst
      To sunshine for his sake.

  When this vain fervour sadly sobers down,
  I'll love you still, white maid, with eyes so brown
      And voice so passing sweet,
  And haply with Apollo's laurel crown
      My love's foredoomed defeat.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration]

WHEN THE "CAT"'S AWAY!

AIR--"_The Sergeant's Song._"

  When the "Cat" is not engaged in its employment--
            Right employment,
  Of laying its nine tails on brutal backs--
            Brutal backs,

  Street gangs of roughs are free to find employment--
            Bad employment,
  In beleaguering the cit's returning tracks--
            Homeward tracks.

  Our feelings we with difficulty smother--!
            'Culty smother,
  At finding ruffian hordes at rowdy "fun"--
            Rowdy fun.

  Taking one consideration with another--
            With another,
  One feels that something stringent should be done--
            Promptly done!

  There's the pistol-bearing burglar boldly burgling--
            Boldly burgling,
  There's the female fiend engaged in cruel crime--
            Cruel crime.
  There's the bashed, half-throttled traveller lying gurgling--
            Faintly gurgling,
  And the "Cat" is lying idle all the time--
            All the time.

  There's the brutal bully kicking wife or mother--
            Wife or mother,
  The unnatural father torturing his son--
            Childish son!
  Ah, take one consideration with another--
            With another,
  It's surely time that something stern were done--
            Quickly done!

  When the "Cat" was laid about the brute garrotter--
            Cur garrotter,
  He soon found it inadvisable to choke--
            'Ble to choke.
  And the lout who of street-outrage is a plotter--
            Callous plotter,
  Would not deem the nine-tailed lash a little joke--
            Pleasant joke.

  The woman-beating brute would hardly smother--
            Scarcely smother,
  His howlings when the lash was well laid on--
            Well laid on.
  So, take one consideration with another--
            With another,
  The "Cat" should once again be called upon--
            Called upon.

  The "corner-boys," and larrikins, and suchlike--
            Louts and suchlike,
  Who rove the streets at night in rowdy gangs--
            Robber-gangs,
  The tingling o' the nine tails might not much like--
            _Would_ not much like,
  But _that_ need not stir sentimental pangs--
            Maudlin pangs.

  "Gang-boy" to brute Garrotter is just brother--
            Simply brother.
  The "Cat" away such vermin prowl--for "fun"--
            Savage fun!
  Yes, take one consideration with another--
            With another,
  The "Cat" should wake again, says _Punch_ for one--
            _Punch_ for one!

  The policeman seems unequal to the job--
            Toughish job.
  The constabulary fails to quell the mob--
            Rowdy mob.
  So, as, very plainly, something _must_ be done--
            Promptly done,
  The suggestion of the "Cat"'s a happy one--
            Happy one!

    [_And Mr. Punch, with picture and poem_ (_grimly earnest,
    though of Gilbertian tone_) _urges its application
    energetically home, upon the powers that be_.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: AGRICULTURAL MANNERS.

SCENE--_Hounds running across Land occupied by Non-sporting Tenant._

_Sportswoman._ "NOW, MY BOY, OPEN THE GATE, PLEASE, AND LET ME
THROUGH."

_Young Hodge._ "MY ORTHERS IS--'JIM, YOU OPPENS THAT THERE G[=A]ATE
FOR NO MAN!' AND AR'M DENGED IF AR DIS _FOR A WOMAN!_"]

       *       *       *       *       *

NOTE BY OUR OWN PHILOSOPHER.

The breakfast-eating practical joker, who can be credited with the
humorous invention of placing the shell of an egg (the edible contents
of which he has previously extracted and swallowed) inverted in an
egg-cup, so as to deceive the first hungry person arriving late into
fancying that the others have considerately deprived themselves
in order that he may not be without his favourite delicacy, this
originator, I say, was decidedly a genius. His work after hundreds,
nay, thousands of years, remains, fresh as is the new laid egg itself!
After being used a million billion times, it gives now the same
pleasure as ever it did when it first issued from the brain of its
brilliant creator! Such a practical joke as this is "not for an age,
but for all time," until there shall be no longer left a hen to lay an
egg, or, if there be an egg left by the expiring hen, there shall be
no longer a person remaining to eat the egg left by the egg-spiring
hen; or, if the person and the egg be there, the last man and the last
egg, there shall be no ten minutes allowed for refreshment, as there
will be no more time for anything!! SOCRATES, HOMER, OVID, HORACE,
PLAUTUS, TERENCE, SHAKSPEARE, WATT, Sir ISAAC NEWTON, _cum multis
aliis_! their names are remembered, and their fame is to the end of
the world! While, alas, the name of the True Wit who first chuckled
over his stroke of genius, is lost for ever, no work of art
perpetuates his name. But his humour is _usque ad finem omnium rerum_!

       *       *       *       *       *

MRS. R. is not surprised that the _Valkyrie_ did not win, when it
broke its pinnacle and did not have a centipede.

       *       *       *       *       *

UNDER THE ROSE.

(_A Story in Scenes._)

SCENE XII.--_Another box at the Eldorado._ TIME--_About_ 9.30 P.M.

_Enter_ Mrs. MERRIDEW _and_ ALTHEA, _followed by_ Colonel MERRIDEW and
Captain ALCHIN.

_Mrs. Merridew._ FRANK, the man _did_ say WALTER WILDFIRE hasn't sung
yet, didn't he? Yes? then _that_'s all right! Oughtn't you and I to
sit at the back, THEA? Well, you shall have this corner at any rate,
and then the curtain will hide you. Captain ALCHIN, will you come
between us, please, and then you can explain any of the jokes we don't
understand.

    [_They settle down._

_Captain Alchin._ Pleasure! (_To himself._) Think I see myself
explainin' the jokes and that! (_Aloud._) Afraid I shan't be of much
use, really. Rather out of my line this sort of thing, you know!

_Mrs. M._ I'm sure you must know more about it than Miss TOOVEY and I
do. Tell me who is this rather good-looking girl in kneebreeches with
the horrid voice and the blue eyelids, and why does she walk like
that?

_Capt. Alch._ (_off his guard_). Oh, that's Miss LARDIE LUSHBOY; it's
her usual business--drinkin' song, young man about town, and all that.

_Mrs. M._ There, you see, you know all about _her_!

    [Capt. A. _hastens to explain that her name is on the
    programme_.

    _Miss Lardie_ (_sings_)--

  See us lurch along in line, with a straggle serpentine,

    [_She suits the action to the word._

  For we've done a heavy fuddle, and we never pass a "pub"!
  And if you want a proof how we chuck about our "oof"--
  Why, come along and have a drink with the Rowdy Razzle Club!

_Mrs. M._ I suppose that's intended as a satire on noisy young men,
isn't it, Captain ALCHIN?

_Captain Alch._ (_who hadn't thought of it in that light_).
Well--ha--that depends on how you _take_ it, don't you know.

_Mrs. M._ That's the way _I_ shall take it, and then it's quite moral.
(_A Low Comedian, in a broad-brimmed hat and a rough black wig, makes
his appearance_.) This must be WALTER WILDFIRE, I suppose. THEA, do
you see? he looks _quite_ nice, and not really vulgar. Now he's going
to sing. Isn't he too delightfully funny! What, FRANK? Not WILDFIRE?
Mr. ALF REDBEAK. Are you _sure_? I was wondering what there could
possibly be in such a common little man as that to make such a fuss
about. And _what_ language? Captain ALCHIN, what _does_ he mean by
saying that he was "dotted on the crust by a copper," and "went off
his onion"?

_Capt. Alch._ (_who foresees rocks ahead if he once undertakes to
interpret_). Oh, well, they're always inventin' some new slang, you
know, Mrs. MERRIDEW; no use tryin' to keep up with it.

    [Miss CISSIE CINDERS _appears as a bedraggled maid of all
    work, and sings a doleful ditty to the effect that_--"Her
    missis will not let her wear no feathers in her 'at, so her
    sojer's gone and given 'er the chuck."

_Mrs. M._ (_delighted_). Isn't she refreshing--so _deliciously_
vulgar! I do hope she hasn't finished. THEA, you're sitting as quiet
as a little mouse in that corner. I hope you're not too dreadfully
shocked? _I'm_ not--at least of course I am, really; but it's not
nearly so bad as I expected.

[Illustration: "See us lurch along in line, with a straggle
serpentine."]

_Althea._ Oh, I'm not in the least shocked, CISSIE, thanks; only I
don't quite understand it all.

_Mrs. M._ My dear, no more do I. I don't understand _any_ of it--but
that makes no difference!

_Alth._ (_To herself_). I don't like to say so, but I _am_
disappointed. Mr. CURPHEW said it would be like a Penny Reading; but
it's not a bit, it's ever so much stupider. But he never goes himself,
so of course----

_Mrs. M._ It's quite a respectable audience; I thought we should
be the only people in evening dress, but we're not. I do wish they
wouldn't allow quite so much smoking, though; the atmosphere's getting
something too awful. Oh, THEA, do look in that box just opposite. Can
you see through that lace curtain? Ah, you can't see now!

_Alth._ (_looking round the edge of the curtain_). Where, CISSIE, who
is it?

_Mrs. M._ Why, quite the typical British Matron--_the_ most
tremendously proper-looking person; so if _she_ doesn't see any harm
in being here, I'm sure we needn't. I'll tell you when she pops her
her head out again. There, quick! THEA, quick! Did you see her that
time?

_Alth._ (_faintly_). Y--yes. I--I saw her _that_ time. (_To herself._)
Is this a wicked conscience--or what? It was _so_ like Mamma! But how
could it be?

_Mrs. M._ Did you _ever_ see such a grim old frump, THEA? I wonder
what possessed her to come to a place like this? She doesn't look as
if it was amusing her much.

_Alth._ (_distractedly_). Doesn't she? (_To herself._) If it _should_
be Mamma! If she has found out in some way that we were to be here
to-night and followed us! But how _could_ she know? Suppose she were
to see me, and--and come round and fetch me away; how awful it would
be! But she can't see me through these curtains. I don't believe it
_is_ Mamma. I--I wish I dared look again. Oh, why did I get CISSIE to
bring me here?

_Capt. Alch._ May I borrow your opera glass for a moment, Mrs.
MERRIDEW? Thanks, awf'ly. (_As he looks through it._) There's goin'
to be a row in that opposite box. Your British Matron's gettin' her
quills up--give you my word she is.

_Mrs. M._ Oh, do let me see! (_She holds out her hand for the glass,
which_ Capt. A. _surrenders_.) Yes, I do believe you're right.
Somebody's just come in and----Now there's another, a young man,
and--oh, THEA!

_Alth._ (_in an agony_). What is it, CISSIE? _do_ tell me! (_To
herself._) It must be CHARLES--I'm sure it's CHARLES. Then _that_'s
why--and it _is_ Mamma! (_Aloud._) Mayn't I have the glass?

_Mrs. M._ I think you had better not, dear. The British Matron has
boxed the poor young man's ears--she has really. I wonder what--but
well, it doesn't matter. Now she's turned him out of the box. He's
coming back--alone. Yes, the old lady has certainly gone--it's all
over. I'm _so_ sorry; it was ever so much more interesting than that
big fat man who's singing!

_Alth._ (_tremulously_). Mayn't I look now, CISSIE, if it's all over?
(_She almost snatches the glass, and directs it at the young man in
Box C--then to herself, with relief._) Why, it isn't CHARLES--it's
not even like him. Then--oh, what a goose I've been! It wasn't Mamma
either. It was all my fancy, and she had on rather the same kind of
bonnet. As if Mamma would come to a music-hall and box the ears of
somebody she didn't know! But _what_ a fright it gave me!

    [_She begins to feel capable of enjoying the performance._

_Col. Merridew_ (_later_). Now we're going to see the great man,
CECILIA. WILDFIRE'S down to sing next.

_Capt. Alch._ Don't you be too sure, FRANK. They haven't put the
number up yet, you see. As likely as not they'll put in an "extra
turn," and he won't come at all. I've known that happen lots of times
when you come on purpose to see somethin', don't you know.

_Mrs. M._ Really, Captain ALCHIN, I shall begin to suspect that you
are more of an authority about music-halls than your modesty would
admit at first.

_Capt. Alch._ (_in some confusion_). No, really now, Mrs. MERRIDEW,
all I mean is WILDFIRE'S bringin' out a play or somethin' to-night at
the Hilarity, so he mayn't be able to turn up here, don't you see.

_Mrs. M._ I won't have you predicting evil like that; it's not at all
nice of you, and you're quite wrong, too; for there's his number in
the frame now!

    [_The Scene on the Stage changes once more from an Oriental
    Palace to a London Street; a bell tingles; the Orchestra
    dashes into the air of_ "The Hansom Cabman," _which the bulk
    of the audience hail with delight; then a stream of limelight
    is thrown on the boards, and_ WALTER WILDFIRE _appears_.

_Mrs. M._ (_after the first verse_). I don't know what it is, but
there's something about him very different from all the others. And
they say he writes all his own songs and music--so clever of him!
Quite a striking face he has, rather handsome, with that drooping
moustache. Don't _you_ think he's handsome, THEA? (ALTHEA _does not
answer_; WILDFIRE _sings the last verse; as he concludes, the house is
hushed for an instant, and then breaks into a thunder of applause_.)
It's quite beautiful that last verse; poor, poor fellow! it all seemed
so real, somehow! Ah, he's not going to sing the last verse again. I'm
rather glad, for I very nearly howled, and it would be too silly to
cry at a music-hall. (_Interval._) Here he is again; how different he
looks. I suppose it's the sandwich-boards. (WILDFIRE _goes through
the second song with the small child; in the midst of the second
stanza, he suddenly falters, and only recovers himself by a violent
effort_; ALTHEA _has bent forward out of the shadow of the curtain_.)
It's too frightfully pathetic; he's such a dear, isn't he? (_The
applause is more rapturous than ever; an encore is clamoured for_;
WILDFIRE _reappears, looking ghastly pale, and makes a mute plea for
indulgence; after he has finally retired, the clamour still continues,
until the scene and the number are shifted_.) He won't sing
any more--how sad! Wasn't he charming with that child? (_In an
undertone._) Why, ALTHEA, darling!

_Alth._ (_in a shaken voice_). D--don't speak to me just yet, CISSIE.
I know it's very foolish of me; but I can't bear it.

_Capt. Alch._ (_to himself_). Gad, I'd give somethin' to sing like
that Johnny, and make her eyes shine like that!

_Mrs. M._ FRANK, we may as well go now, there's nothing else worth
staying for, and I'm sure this horrid tobacco is ruining my poor
pearls; or would you rather stay a little longer, THEA?

_Alth._ Oh, no, no; I don't want to hear anybody else--after that.
(_To herself, as_ Capt. A. _helps her on with her cloak_.) And that is
the man Mr. CURPHEW said nothing would induce him to go and see. And I
actually persuaded myself that---- But I am wiser now. He can never be
anything to me!

    [_She leaves the box with her party._

END OF SCENE XII.

       *       *       *       *       *

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

COLONEL COLVILE chivalrously takes upon himself responsibility for
the title of the volume in which his wife has recorded their joint
experience of a trip round the coast of Africa. _Round the Black Man's
Garden_ is about as bad a title as a book could have. Happily, Mrs.
COLVILE'S clever travel notes triumphantly carry the weight. The
travellers commenced their journey at Suez, visiting places in the
Red Sea which voyagers by the P. and O. steamers pass by on the
other side. They made their way down the west coast by all the most
uncomfortable means of conveyance attainable, culminating in the
filanzana, in which instrument of torture they were carried across the
hills and through the swamps of Madagascar. Colonel COLVILE, just
now enjoying himself amid the privations of the journey up country to
Uganda, is well known as an indomitable traveller. In Mrs. COLVILE he
found a worthy companion. On a merry page of the narrative of life in
Madagascar, it is incidentally mentioned that the travellers arrive at
Malatsy with their luggage soaking after a dip in the river. They dine
in a whitewashed hut, with an army of big cockroaches overrunning the
walls. Resuming their journey next morning they "entered a dense cloud
of singularly malignant little black flies." The half-naked porters
were soon streaming with blood, and the passengers' faces were in a
similar condition. "Luckily," writes Mrs. COLVILE, in her cheery way,
"we were soon clear of the infested belt, to move in the course of
half-an-hour into a flight of locusts." Mrs. COLVILE takes as the
motto of her book the proverb, _Qui suit son chemin arrive à la fin_.
My Baronite arrived at the end of Mrs. COLVILE'S fascinating narrative
full of admiration for her courage and good temper. But as long as
Piccadilly and Pall Mall are not "up," he will be content with them,
and would rather not follow her road.

  BARON DE BOOK-WORMS & CO.

       *       *       *       *       *

THE CABMAN'S GUIDE TO POLITENESS.--No. I.

    (_In short, easy Lessons, arranged after the fashion of the
    Child's Handbook to Useful Knowledge._)

[Illustration]

_Question._ I suppose your chief desire is to make as much out of the
public as possible?

_Answer._ I suppose it is.

_Q._ And you will be as glad to attain your object by politeness as by
any other method?

_A._ Well, of course it don't matter to me how I get the coin, so long
as I do get it.

_Q._ Precisely. Well, have you ever tried to be polite?

_A._ Never. Don't know exactly what the word represents.

_Q._ So I thought. Well, I will attempt to teach you its meaning by
example.

_A._ Thank you; so long as it helps me, and don't hurt you, what's the
odds?

_Q._ Certainly; I see that you have some rudimentary knowledge of the
matter already. Well, to begin. Suppose a fare gave you less than what
you considered your right charge, how would you behave?

_A._ If a policeman wasn't in the way, I should say "What's this?" and
glare at him indignantly.

_Q._ Have you found this a successful method of obtaining an increase?

_A._ Well, no, not much. Of course if you get an old lady, or a mother
with a heap of children, you can do almost anything with them.

_Q._ But let us take a smart cavalry officer, who knows his way about
town, do you think the method you suggest would be successful with
him?

_A._ No, I don't; but no cavalry officer who was really smart would
offer me less than my fare.

_Q._ But we are assuming that there may be some question about the
fare. For instance, what would you consider the right charge from
Charing Cross railway-station to the St. James's Theatre?

_A._ Why, eighteen pence, to be sure, and a cheap eighteen pence in
the bargain.

_Q._ Your computation of the charge will suit my purpose. Of course,
you know that the police put the distance at something less than two
miles, I may say considerably less?

_A._ I daresay they do, but the police are not everybody, and you said
I was not to consider the constables if they weren't on the spot. If
they were, of course that would make a difference.

_Q._ Assume you get a shilling. Now suppose you were to look at the
coin, and to say, "I beg your pardon, Sir, but are you aware this
shilling is a George the Fourth, or a well-preserved William the
Fourth, or an early Victoria, would you not like to exchange it for
one of less historical interest?" Do you not think that such a speech,
with a civil touch of the hat, would immediately attract attention?

_A._ It might, but I can't say for certain, as I have never tried it.

_Q._ I did not suppose that you had. Do you not believe that were you
to make such a remark your kind consideration would receive attention?

_A._ Quite as likely as not, but what then?

_Q._ Well, having established yourself on a friendly footing, could
you not improve the occasion by adding, "I do not know whether you are
aware of the fact, Sir, but I frequently receive eighteen pence for
the very distance you have just travelled?"

_A._ Of course I could, but what good would it be?

_Q._ That you will probably find out if you act on my suggestion, and
now, as I have taught you enough for to-day, I will adopt a driver's
phrase and "pull up." Have you anything polite to say to me which will
prove to me that you have been bettered by my instruction?

_A._ Nothing that I can think of, unless it be, "Thank you for
nothing."

_Q._ That is scarcely the reply I had expected. However, do not be
disheartened, to thank me at all is a move in the right direction. And
now you will come again?

_A._ Well, yes, when I have nothing better to do.

_Q._ I am infinitely obliged to you. I will detain you no longer.
Good-bye, and I hope you will adopt my method and find it successful.

_A._ I hope so, too. But there's no telling.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: THINGS ONE WOULD RATHER HAVE EXPRESSED DIFFERENTLY.

"DON'T GO, CANON; I WANT TO INTRODUCE YOU TO A LADY WHO WISHES TO MAKE
YOUR ACQUAINTANCE."

"OH--ER--I'M RATHER IN A HURRY; SOME OTHER DAY, PERHAPS--ER--ER."

"IT'S MY WIFE, YOU KNOW."

"OH, THAT'S _DIFFERENT_. I THOUGHT YOU SAID A _LADY_! I SHALL BE
CHARMED!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

THE BLACK SHADOW.

  We're near to the gloomy GUY FAUX anniversary,
    Nigh to the gorging of Lord Mayor's Day,
  But though 'tis November, there's joy in the Nursery
    Ruled by Nurse GLADSTONE out Westminster way.
  The summer's long troubles are laid on the shelf
  And "Nana" looks quite like enjoying herself.

  That bothersome bantling, the big Irish baby,
    Is tucked up in bed for a long forty winks.
  (Though its shrill Banshee howl will be heard again, maybe,
    From waking it, _yet_, even Nana G. shrinks.)
  So now for a nice quiet time, if you please,
  With the brace of most sweet-tempered bairns on her knees.

  They're English--quite English, and easy to handle,
    Won't raise horrid noises and anger the House.
  They're pleasant to see and delightful to dandle,
    And Nana opines that, with nursery _nous_,
  They'll be got "nicely off"--if she makes no mistakes--
  Before that Hibernian worry awakes.

  "To market, to market, to buy a fat piggy!
    (But O, not a poor Irish pig--in a poke!)"
  So pipes Nana GLADSTONE so jocund and jiggy
    She ekes out her Nursery lilt with a joke.
  "We've done, for a season, with row-de-dow-dow,
  And there's no 'Bogey Man,' dears, to bother us now!"

  Nurses, we know, find the "Black Man" most handy
    To frighten their charges to quiet at times;
  But now 'tis all "Hush-a-bye, Babes!" "Handy-pandy!"
    And such soothing carols and quieting rhymes,
  No need for a "black ugly thing in the garden"
  To quiet _these_ babes, thinks old Nana from Hawarden!

  Alas, and alas! Bogey Men are such rum 'uns,
    And some Ugly Things are "too previous," or worse.
  How oft the Black Shadow appears without summons,
    And terrifies not the poor babes, but their Nurse!
  Nana's not disturbed--yet--by the Irish babe's squall,
  But--what means that black-boding shade on the wall?

  The African Bogey! Inopportune, very!
    It's really a nuisance, it does seem a shame
  That just as Nurse G. is prepared to make merry
    With two such sweet bantlings _this_ Spook spoils the game!
  Uganda! Mashonaland!! Nurse, I'm afraid
  The Dark Continent casts o'er your babes a Black Shade!

       *       *       *       *       *

THE THREE V'S.

(_Voice, Vote, and Veto._)

    [What the brewers want is a Reform Bill by which "every adult
    resident with a throat should have a vote."--_Westminster
    Gazette._]

  "When wine is in the wit is out"
  Was once held wisdom past all doubt;
  But now 'twould seem that every throttle
  That hath capacity for the bottle,
  Must have it also for the suffrage.
  No more need rowdy Rad or rough rage.
  Throat-suffrage should please everybody
  Who lets out noise or takes in toddy,
  By way of a capacious throat
  Can drink and shout--One Throat, one Vote!

       *       *       *       *       *

FROM MR. CORMORANT, ST. JAMES'S PARK.--"Thank you, Sir. Mother and
child, Master CORMORANT and Mrs. CORMORANT, are doing uncommonly well.
Hope for the best. But permit me, accidents will happen, and I should
like to make provision--you understand. How? In my newspaper I see
advertised 'Eagle Insurance Co.,' 'Pelican Life Insurance Co.' Why are
the Eagle and the Pelican to be benefited, and not the Cormorant--and
others? But never mind the others. I speak for myself, and am yours
Devouringly, Captain CORMORANT."

       *       *       *       *       *

SOMETHING IN A NAME.--Most appropriate official to make a "Budget
Statement"--Sir GEORGE "DIBBS."

       *       *       *       *       *

A STRIKE MOTTO.--"'Tis true, 'tis pitty; and pitty 'tis, 'tis true."

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: THE BLACK SHADOW.

NURSE GLADSTONE. "NOW, MY LITTLE DEARS, WE SHALL HAVE A NICE QUIET
TIME--ALL TO OURSELVES!"

"UGANDA! MASHONALAND!! NURSE, I'M AFRAID THE DARK CONTINENT CASTS O'ER
YOUR BABES A BLACK SHADE!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

THE ADVENTURES OF PICKLOCK HOLES.

(_By Cunnin Toil_.)

No. VI.--THE UMBROSA BURGLARY.

During one of my short summer holidays I happened to be spending a few
days at the delightful riverside residence of my friend JAMES
SILVER, the extent of whose hospitality is only to be measured by
the excellence of the fare that he sets before his guests, or by the
varied amusements that he provides for them. The beauties of Umbrosa
(for that is the attractive name of his house) are known to all those
who during the summer months pass up (or down) the winding reaches of
the Upper Thames. It was there that I witnessed a series of startling
events which threw the whole county into a temporary turmoil. Had it
not been for the unparalleled coolness and sagacity of PICKLOCK
HOLES the results might have been fraught with disaster to many
distinguished families, but the acumen of HOLES saved the situation
and the family-plate, and restored the peace of mind of one of the
best fellows in the world.

The party at Umbrosa consisted of the various members of the SILVER
family, including, besides Mr. and Mrs. SILVER, three high-spirited
and unmarried youths and two charming girls. PICKLOCK HOLES was of
course one of the guests. In fact, it had long since come to be an
understood thing that wherever I went HOLES should accompany me in the
character of a professional detective on the lookout for business;
and JAMES SILVER though he may have at first resented the calm
unmuscularity of my marvellous friend's immovable face would have been
the last man in the world to spoil any chance of sport or excitement
by refraining from offering a cordial invitation to HOLES. The
party was completed by PETER BOWMAN, a lad of eighteen, who to
an extraordinary capacity for mischief, added an imperturbable
cheerfulness of manner. He was generally known as Shock-headed PETER,
in allusion to the brush-like appearance of his delicate auburn hair,
but his intimate friends sometimes addressed him as VENUS, a nickname
which he thoroughly deserved by the almost classic irregularity of his
Saxon features.

[Illustration: "Propelled by an athletic young fellow."]

We were all sitting, I remember, on the riverbank, watching the
countless craft go past, and enjoying that pleasant industrious
indolence which is one of the chief charms of life on the Thames. A
punt had just skimmed by, propelled by an athletic young fellow in
boating costume. Suddenly HOLES spoke.

"It is strange," he said, "that the man should be still at large."

"What man? Where? How?" we all exclaimed breathlessly.

"The young puntsman," said HOLES, with an almost aggravating coolness.
"He is a bigamist, and has murdered his great aunt."

"It cannot be," said Mr. SILVER, with evident distress. "I know the
lad well, and a better fellow never breathed."

"I speak the truth," said HOLES, unemotionally. "The induction is
perfect. He is wearing a red tie. That tie was not always red. It
was, therefore, stained by something. Blood is red. It was, therefore,
stained by blood. Now it is well known that the blood of great aunts
is of a lighter shade, and the colour of that tie has a lighter shade.
The blood that stained it was, therefore, the blood of his great aunt.
As for the bigamy, you will have noticed that as he passed he blew
two rings of cigarette-smoke, and they both floated in the air _at the
same time_. A ring is a symbol of matrimony. Two rings together mean
bigamy. He is, therefore, a bigamist."

For a moment we were silent, struck with horror at this dreadful, this
convincing revelation of criminal infamy. Then I broke out:

"HOLES," I said, "you deserve the thanks of the whole community. You
will of course communicate with the police."

"No," said HOLES, "they are fools, and I do not care to mix myself up
with them. Besides, I have other fish to fry."

Saying this, he led me to a secluded part of the grounds, and
whispered in my ear.

"Not a word of what I am about to tell you. There will be a burglary
here to-night."

"But, HOLES," I said, startled in spite of myself at the calm
omniscience of my friend, "had we not better do something; arm the
servants, warn the police, bolt the doors and bar the windows, and
sit up with blunderbusses--anything would be better than this state of
dreadful expectancy. May I not tell Mr. SILVER?"

"POTSON, you are amiable, but you will never learn my methods." And
with that enigmatic reply I had to be content in the meantime.

The evening had passed as pleasantly as evenings at Umbrosa always
pass. There had been music; the Umbrosa choir, composed of members of
the family and guests, had performed in the drawing-room, and PETER
had drawn tears from the eyes of every one by his touching
rendering of the well-known songs of "_The Dutiful Son_" and "_The
Cartridge-bearer_." Shortly afterwards, the ladies retired to bed,
and the gentlemen, after the customary interval in the smoking-room,
followed. We were in high good-humour, and had made many plans for the
morrow. Only HOLES seemed pre-occupied. Once I heard him muttering
to himself, "It's bound to come off properly; never failed yet. They
wired to say they'd be here by the late train. Well, let them come. I
shall be ready for them." I did not venture at the time to ask him the
meaning of these mysterious words.

I had been sleeping for about an hour, when I was suddenly awakened
with a start. In the passage outside I heard the voices of the
youngest SILVER boy and of PETER.

"PETER, old chap," said JOHNNY SILVER, "I believe there's burglars in
the house. Isn't it a lark?"

"Ripping," said PETER. "Have you told your people?"

"Oh, it's no use waking the governor and the mater; we'll do the job
ourselves. I told the girls, and they've all locked themselves in and
got under their beds, so they're safe. Are you ready?"

"Yes."

"Come on then."

With that they went along the passage and down the stairs. My mind was
made up, and my trousers and boots were on in less time than it takes
to tell it. I went to HOLES'S room and entered. He was lying on his
bed, fully awake, dressed in his best detective suit, with his fingers
meditatively extended, and touching one another.

"They're here," I said.

"Who?"

"The burglars."

"As I thought," said HOLES, selecting his best basket-hilted
life-preserver from a heap in the middle of the room. "Follow me
silently."

I did so. No sooner had we reached the landing, however, than the
silence was broken by a series of blood-curdling screams.

"Good Heavens!" was all I could say.

"Hush," said HOLES. I obeyed him. The screams subsided, and I heard
the voices of my two young friends, evidently in great triumph.

"Lie still, you brute," said PETER, "or I'll punch your blooming head.
Give the rope another twist, JOHNNY. That's it. Now you cut and tell
your governor and old HOLES that we've nabbed the beggar."

By this time the household was thoroughly roused. Agitated females
and inquisitive males streamed downstairs. Lights were lit, and a
remarkable sight met our eyes. In the middle of the drawing-room lay
an undersized burglar, securely bound, with PETER sitting on his head.

"JOHNNY and I collared the beggar," said PETER, "and bowled him over.
Thanks, I think I could do a ginger-beer."

The man was of course tried and convicted, and HOLES, who had
explained how he had been certain that the burglary was contemplated
and had taken his measures accordingly, received the thanks of the
County Council.

"That fellow," said the great detective to me, "was the best and
cleverest of my tame team of country-house burglars. Through him and
his associates I have fostered and foiled more thefts than I care to
count. Those infernal boys nearly spoilt everything. POTSON, take my
advice, never attempt a master-stroke in a house full of boys. They
can't understand scientific induction. Had they not interfered I
should have caught the fellow myself. He had wired to tell me where I
should find him."

       *       *       *       *       *

PRECEPT AND PRACTICE.--It's not sufficiently recognised that a Bishop
is bound to side with the masters, as by the terms of his contract he
engages to be "no striker."

       *       *       *       *       *

"HOW TO MAKE ENGLAND SOBER."--"It can't be done," says the Bishop of
CHESTER, "_sans Jayne_."

       *       *       *       *       *

A STRIKING HEADLINE (_all rights reserved_).--Loch Out in
Matabeleland!

       *       *       *       *       *

A JINGO PARADOX.--We pot the natives to preserve ourselves.

       *       *       *       *       *

A MISTY CRYSTAL.

  DARLINGS, I am growing old,
  Silver threads among the gold.
  Cannot see beyond my nose,
  Must have glasses I suppose.
  At the fair I bought a pair,
  Golden rimmed, of pebbles rare,
  Paid the money then and there,
  Glad my spectacles to wear.
  But, how strange! I could not see
  What was just in front of me!
  Took them off and rubbed them well;
  Cleaned they seemed; but, strange to tell,
  When I put them on again
  Everything was plain as plain,
  But reflected from behind!
  Then I found that tho' so blind,
  Many little things I saw
  Which I had not seen before.
  First, my page, of doubtful age,
  Put me in a dreadful rage;
  Dipped his fingers in the cream;
  (Turned and faced him--made him scream!)
  Dropped the pot, upset a lot--
  Caught it from me pretty hot.
  Next the footman kicked my cat
  Sleeping on its lamb's-wool mat.
  Loosed my dicky from its cage
  (Shall deduct this from his wage).
  When the housemaid scrubbed the floor,
  Watched her through the open door
  At my eldest making eyes.
  Packed her off to her surprise,
  Heeding not her tears and cries.
  Truly blindness makes one wise!
  Then I caught my little son
  Putting mustard in a bun;
  Going to give it to the pug.
  Seized him by the nearest lug,
  Boxed it hard. He howled with pain;
  Never teased the dog again.
  Saw my girl of twenty-three
  Kiss the curate, after tea.
  Sent the pair to right about.
  (Wondered how I found them out!)
  So, you see, I really find
  Much amusement of a kind.
  Eyes before and eyes behind,
  Is there anyone would mind
  Being just a little blind?

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: TRUE COMPUNCTION.

_Young Hopeful_ (_who has been celebrating, not wisely but too well,
the last day of his Exam._). "LOOK HERE, MAJOR! IF _YOU_ DON'T TELL MY
FATHER OF MY D'SGRASHEFUL CONDUCK, _I_ SHALL!"]

       *       *       *       *       *

N.B. !

    [In the "Report of the Royal Commission on Labour" it is said
    that "domestic economy is not now practised among the Scotch
    peasants with such closeness as formerly; wives have ceased
    to use oatmeal and other simple fare, and buy from the passing
    cart inferior goods which they could very well prepare at
    home." The married labourer's clothing is "finer, but less
    durable," and he himself is "less unknown in places of
    amusement."]

  SCOTS, wha hae on parritch fed!
  Scots, in thrifty habits bred!
  Air ye leavin' barley bread,
          And frugality?

  Now's the day, much more the night,
  For stickin' to your bawbees tight!
  See approach proud Fashion's might,
          Chains o' luxury!

  Wha will to the flesher's wend,
  Buy thin breeks that will na mend,
  Wha sae base as saxpence spend
          On an evenin' spree?

  Wha for Scotland's knitted hose,
  Oaten cakes and homespun clo'es,
  Now will deal some auld-warld blows?
          He will live, _not_ dee!

  By each braw and kilted laddie,
  Gudeman douce, and gude-boy caddie,
  Ye may weel at once eradi-
          -cate frivolity!

  Strike, and break amusement's yoke,
  Or your ainsells may be broke!
  Siller's saved in every stroke
          Of economy!

       *       *       *       *       *

FIRST-RATE FOREIGN ADVERTISEMENT FOR A MEDICAL FRIEND OF OURS.--Every
dinner in France is now served "_à la Roose_."

       *       *       *       *       *

A WALK IN DEVON.

PART II.--THE FINISH.

_Notes from the Travel Diary of Toby, M.P._

  _The Cottage, Burrow-in-the-Corner, Devon._

VERY awkward to have missed the Post; being Saturday night means delay
of twenty-four hours.

"Seen the postman?" I asked Old Gentleman.

"Seed ee two minits ago. Gone up the hill. I'll call him back."

New idea this. Never remember when just too late for last pillar-box
clearance in London suburb running after postman, bringing him back,
and getting him to make special clearance. Old Gentleman evidently
thought nothing of it; skipped out of garden with remarkable agility;
in middle of road in a twinkling; shouting "Hi! hi!" and waving green
umbrella wildly over his narrow-brimmed top hat, round which the rime
of age modestly lurked. Postman did not seem at all annoyed; came back
promptly, unlocked box, and trudged off again on his rounds.

Here's where my misfortune began. Way back clear by the road I had
come; inviting lane passed Old Gentleman's house; was there anyway
along it to Burrow-in-the-Corner? "Why, yes," said Old Gentleman,
whose desire to accommodate was illimitable. "Follow this lane till
you come to four cross roads, then turn to left, and keep on." Nothing
plainer than this: getting used to four cross roads in these parts;
came upon this particular assortment after quarter of an hour's walk;
a sign-post too; so thoughtful; no difficulty about four cross roads
when there's a sign-post. Walked up to it and round it; not a single
letter remaining intact of the direction. Sign-post older than
Old Gentleman with the umbrella, and not nearly in such state of
preservation. Not a soul in sight; "no footfall breaking silence of
closing day." Old Gentleman said turn to left; so left must be right;
take it, and walk on.

Pretty broad highway; must be main road leading somewhere. Why not to
Burrow-in-the-Corner? Quarter mile off come upon bifurcation. Which is
main road? Instincts of trapper assert themselves; carefully examine
which way traffic mostly goes; not many cart-ruts, but majority turn
to left; that must be the way to Burrow-in-the-Corner. Take it; find
it a ditch between lofty hedges going up a hill, and then, like the
late Duke of York, going down again. Half a mile of this; then another
bifurcation; a gentle curve, insidious, but unmistakable, one horn of
my dilemma leading to right, the other to left. Take the right this
time, by way of change; leads into a road running at right angles.
Should I turn right or left? Do a little of both in succession; can
see nothing of the lay of country, by reason of wall-like hedges;
presently come to gate in field; country chillingly unfamiliar.

Situation beginning to grow serious; dusk closing in apace. In spite
of it I see my mistake; took the wrong turning when I examined the
traffic-mark; must turn back there, and peg along the other road;
get into narrow lane again; this time, varying man[oe]uvre of Duke of
York, go down a hill, and then go up again.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: LIKA JOKO'S JOTTINGS.--No. 3. STAG HUNTING.]

       *       *       *       *       *

Trapper instinct, before alluded to, made me note heap of broken
stones at this particular bifurcation. Here it is; no mistake about
that; take other turning, and press on full speed; can't be more
than two miles now; straight road, and there you are. Can do it under
half-an-hour. Nothing so delightful as walk in country lane in cool of
evening. This particular lane rather long; roads and lanes cutting
off to right and left; at least no bifurcation. Not a house in sight;
every soul in the country apparently turned in. Cottar's Saturday
night, of course; should have thought of that before; explains
everything.

Apparently no end to this road; suddenly seems to disappear; only a
dip down a hill; think at first, from steepness, it must be road into
Tipperton; but Tipperton is miles away. Getting on for dinner-time;
better run down hill; do so; see light flickering at end; probably
The Cottage windows; hum "A light in the window for me"; find I've no
breath to spare for musical entertainments; shut up, and run. Light
comes from farm-house; enter yard cautiously in case of another dog
being there. In the twilight see second Old Gentleman; this time in
his shirt-sleeves, sitting meditatively on an upturned bucket set on a
barn floor. "Is this the way to Burrow-in-the-Corner?" I ask, a little
out of breath. Old Gentleman stares; perhaps he is deaf; looks deaf,
but find he is only chuckling; repeat question louder. "No," says he,
"but that be;" and he waves a horny hand up the wall of a hill down
which I had scrambled.

For the last twenty minutes I'd been running away from
Burrow-in-the-Corner as if we didn't dine at 7.30.

Old Gentleman not accustomed to seeing joke; made most of this; when
he recovered I learned that if I walked back up hill a mile, and
took first turning to right, I should be on the road to
Burrow-in-the-Corner. Nice pull up hill; kept keen look out for
turn to right; after quarter of hour's rapid walking passed on left
openings of two lanes in close contiguity. Through one I had forty
minutes earlier walked on to this very road. If I had then turned to
left instead of going back I should have been at The Cottage by this
time--supposing, of course, the road leads thither.

No use repining; must get on; feeling peckish; walk in middle of road
to make most of twilight shut out by hedges; can't see time by watch;
doing something more than four miles an hour. At end of what seems
half-hour am apparently no forrader; no house; no passer-by; no
friendly light over ghostly expanse peeped at through occasional
gates.

Begin to think of story heard the other day. Belated parson went to
take evening service for friend at church close by post-office where
I made acquaintance of first Old Gentleman. Only three miles from his
own house; after sermon set off to walk home; thinking of many things,
turned off at wrong point; knew country pretty well, but darkness
came on; hopelessly lost; found forlornly sitting on a gate at eleven
o'clock by farmer's son fortuitously delayed on his return home; took
stranger home with him; woke up family, and gave him shakedown for
night.

"It was bad enough, TOBY," rev. gentleman said, "and might have been
worse. But what rankles most bitterly in my breast at present day is
remark of farmer's wife when her son shouted up at open window that
he had brought home a clergyman who had lost his way and wanted a
bed. 'Clergyman!' she cried, with cruel scorn. 'Get away with you. No
clergyman would be out at this time of night.'"

One comfort it's not raining; rained in torrents when my friend the
parson had his Sunday night out. Road evidently not leading towards
The Cottage; suppose that once more I am walking away from it! Trapper
instincts already alluded to have evolved a plan which I hold in
reserve. Remember (or think I remember) the turns on the way back to
post-office where I made acquaintance of first Old Gentleman; terrible
trudge, but better than sleeping in ditch or shed; shall turn back and
face it. Halt and hesitate; no sign of Cottage or other light; hedges
are black shadows; a few feet in front and an equal distance behind is
wall of darkness; decide to take a hundred paces forward. If then no
sign of habitation shall turn back and grope way by post-office.

At eightieth pace a turn in the road; a light across the roadway; then
The Cottage, and through the open window, into the dark still night,
floats the music of SCHUMANN'S "_Frühlingsnacht_." It is the Cook
singing, while the Housemaid spreads the cloth for dinner.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Illustration: WIREPROOF. SIR HARRY HARDMAN, MOUNTED ON "BEHEMOTH,"
CREATED RATHER A STIR AT THE MEET. HE SAID HE DIDN'T CARE A HANG FOR
THE BARBED OR ANY OTHER KIND OF WIRE.]

       *       *       *       *       *

NO RAISON D'ÊTRE!

    ["The custom of dancing, I am informed on good authority,
    has of late years lost its popularity with our gilded
    youth!"--_Mr. James Payn._]

  A SINGING-BIRD which will not sing, a watch that will not go,
  A working-man who scorns to work, a needle that won't sew,
  Are things whose inutility are obvious at a glance,
  But what _are_ they compared with "gilded youth" who do not dance?

       *       *       *       *       *

MYSTIFIED.--Somebody at Mrs. R.'s was saying that a certain friend of
theirs, a well-known Queen's Counsel, was a first-rate pianist. "By
the way," inquired a young barrister, "doesn't he usually practice in
Mr. Justice ROMER'S court?" Mrs. R. held up her hands in amazement.
"Well," she exclaimed; "I had no idea that music was allowed in a
law court. But I suppose it's in the interval, while the Judge is at
luncheon."

       *       *       *       *       *

An Expostulation.

(_On the recent revision of "The Tempter."_)

  MR. TREE, what _have_ you done?
    Hang it all! there's no exempting
  You from blame for risks we run
    With _The Tempter_ yet more tempting.

       *       *       *       *       *

QUERY.--Has the want of rain this summer, and consequent failure of
the hay crops, affected the market for Grass Widows?

       *       *       *       *       *